Dirty Deeds Done Cheap (14 page)

The darkness was impenetrable to the naked eye, and we didn’t have the benefit of the hi-tech night-vision goggles that the Yanks had. We did have some provided to us but they weren’t of very good quality and we felt they didn’t help us at all. We didn’t have night sights on our weapons, either. Many hours later, and with our nerves stretched to breaking point, the Americans finally turned up to relieve us. We thankfully returned to our hooches to get some well-deserved sleep. We’d been up for hours, with no backup, and we were knackered.

The next morning all we had was an airport run to do, just run-of-the-mill stuff but always an arse twitcher, since any trip was dangerous here. One of our guys was going on leave and it’s not as if you could just call a cab to run him across town. It was always a case of running the gauntlet through Mosul – never a dull moment.

It was always nice when you arrived at the airport. There was a great American duty-free shop. You could even order a Harley-Davidson motorcycle or buy a car if you wanted, and all at great discount prices. These could be delivered anywhere in the world. Also, you could get some great knock-off American kit: extra magazines for our weapons and general ‘Gucci’ kit (‘Gucci’ is a term we used in the mob to describe any nice designer gear or special kit). We could even blag extra ammo from the store that was situated around the back of the PX (Post Exchange). It was all good stuff.

In northern Iraq, if there was a chance to grab a bargain or, even better, get something for free, you grabbed it! You never knew when anything might come in handy – like the American military-issue body armour (which most of us were now wearing), which was shit hot. It was nice and snug, well fitting and comfortable with the added bonus of giving loads more protection. Even the sides of these jackets with no plates in could stop a 9mm round. The ones we were issued with could do all of this but the American vests fitted better. And, as we’ve seen, you could attach your kit to them, such as ammo pouches, which meant you could do away with wearing webbing vests. It all made for a better system to wear, and was more effective to run around in if you had to debus.

W
e’d come through the end of summer in northern Iraq now and you could tell, because the temperature had dropped dramatically. In the south it stays pretty warm all year round but in the north it gets very cold (it can go well below freezing), and it snows.

(After the First Gulf War, when I was still a Royal Marines Commando, one of our main jobs was to force the pockets of the elite Republican Guard out of northern Iraq and repatriate the Kurdish people, who had been driven up into the mountains. When we got off the choppers in the valleys it was around 35ºC, but we had all our winter gear on and we were roasting; but up in the mountains it was always freezing with snow on the peaks. This is the area where the poor Kurds were forced to live.)

So all the gear we were wearing now had to change. We exchanged our desert boots for Gore-Tex-lined ones. We had to get insulated work jackets, gloves, woolly hats, etc. The mornings were now freezing, so, instead of the usual warm stroll over to the showers, it was now a sprint in your towel. There would be steam pouring out of the shower block. In fact, it was so unpleasant running around camp in a towel that during one mission up into Kurdistan we all bought ourselves dressing gowns to try to combat that early-morning chill.

Since there were only twenty-eight or so expats working on this project, we obviously couldn’t take leave all at once, so the boss asked us to put in leave requests. We had to try to stagger it so that only a couple of guys were on leave at any one time. To tell you the truth, unbelievable though it sounds, most of us were happy just to stay put. We were all earning around £14,000 a month and happy just letting the money come in and doing a job we all enjoyed. The fact that you’re putting your life on the line every day doesn’t enter into it. Obviously, it crosses your mind, but you never think anything will ever happen to you, always the other poor fucker.

Going on leave for some of the guys wasn’t straightforward at all. We had a few guys from Zimbabwe and if, on their arrival back in their own country, it was found out that they’d been working in Iraq they would be banged up and tortured for being mercenaries! However, because private companies controlled the airports in Iraq, there were no stamps in our passports and in Kuwait we could travel on our American forces ID cards – so, again, no stamps. These Zimbabwean guys had to be so careful. On our ID card we were given the civvy equivalent of a colonel. This wasn’t to give us any authority; rather, it was in the event of our getting injured or killed, since it would speed up the process of getting flown to Germany, where the main American hospital was. For most of us going on leave, it was a pretty simple process. All we had to do was get to the airport in Mosul, then back through Kuwait, on to Amsterdam and then back into the UK, normally Heathrow.

It was early November and I’d packed the stuff I was going to take home. That wasn’t much, just pants and socks and other clothes. I went to the armoury and handed in my weapons and ammo but I took my optical sight off, just in case it got ‘borrowed’. I’m not for one minute saying that anyone would have nicked it. It’s just that with an operation this size things can and do get lost. After handing in all that was necessary I got a lift up to the office from one of the Fijians. At least for this leave I would have a travelling partner: Phillipe was flying as far as Amsterdam with me. The wait-up at the ops room was boring as hell. Once I had my going-home head on that was it – I wanted to get going and get home.

Within about an hour we were off. I chucked my stuff in the back of the truck and gave the dog a hug; the little fucker tried to nip me again! Still wild at heart. How anyone could actually love this dog was beyond me, but we did. I sat in the middle in the back seat of the truck. It felt strange to be in someone else’s hands as I was used to being in control. I had been given a standard M16 for the ride to the airport but if anything happened on the way there wouldn’t be a lot that I could do unless we debussed. I just wanted to be on that BA flight with a beer in my hand, chilling out and watching a movie as soon as possible.

After the normal mad dash across town, we arrived at the airport. I grabbed my gear out of the back and met up with Phillipe, and we hugged all the guys and said our goodbyes. I wondered which faces would be missing when I got back. I hoped it wasn’t many – it was a sobering thought. In that instant, I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to be left out, wanted to be there with them when the shit went down – mad thoughts, but very real. We were a team, we’d built up a bond, a strong one at that. It felt as if these guys had now become my family and I felt as if I were abandoning them, leaving my ‘family’ to face all that shit alone.

I walked to passenger processing with Phillipe. We didn’t say a word to each other and I knew that he was probably feeling exactly the same as I was. We decided to dump our stuff and go to a nice restaurant. They had four. The Yanks had really got their shit together when it came to this sort of thing. We dumped our gear and headed for the supermarket and cafés. We could see our convoy heading out of the gate – probably to get the Fijians back in time for more food! I quietly wished them Godspeed under my breath.

After a quick look around the supermarket, I bought a couple of presents for mates: a few Yank Army T-shirts, a couple of Gerber knives, stuff like that. Time was getting on, so we grabbed some food and sat and waited. We managed to get ourselves on a quicker flight, which was a good result, because it meant we could spend a longer time in Kuwait, which is a far nicer place to be stuck in than Mosul.

The transit accommodation at Mosul was horrible: it consisted of a plastic mattress and that was it, no sheets, blankets, no pillows, nothing. So it was far more pleasant to sit in the TV lounge (this was open twenty-four hours and showed the latest films available). I bought myself a tea then sat down with Phillipe discussing what we were going to get up to on leave. We were due to fly out on a C-130 Hercules at around 19.00. Just then the flight sergeant came in and shouted out our names. We picked up our gear and put on our body armour and helmets and got into the transport to take us to the plane. As we trundled across the runway I wondered whether I would ever see this place again or remain in the UK. I soon snapped out of my daze and knew damn well that I would be coming back. Nearing the plane I could see a load of American soldiers at the tail, obviously going on some R ’n’ R as well. They all looked pretty cheery. Some of these poor bastards hadn’t been home for nearly a year, some even longer.

After we were seated on the plane, I closed my eyes and tried to get some sleep – I was asleep in a few minutes and soon I was woken up by the landing gear coming down. Next thing, we touched down in Kuwait. The Yanks all gave a big cheer. The airport for the military is huge and we found out, as the plane was unloaded, that our bags had been mislaid. Great! Then, even better, we couldn’t find our transport!

Phillipe and I went to find the processing part of the place and bumped into two guys we knew. They’d got in here earlier but were still waiting to be picked up. We made a few calls and found out that, to cap it all, our lift hadn’t turned up because we’d been forgotten! I spoke to our man in Kuwait City and he told us to sit tight!

I still couldn’t get over the sheer size of the military airport. I just put my IPod on and found a comfy spot. Around three hours passed, then someone kicked my foot. I looked up and there was a smiling Gurkha. ‘You ready to go, Mr Pete?’ I motioned to the others to grab their stuff and we all got into an American SUV that the Gurkha was driving.

Travelling through the airport on the way out, I saw a familiar face. I wound down my window and called out, ‘Will!’ He looked around and shouted, ‘All right, mate!’ But we didn’t stop and I’ve never seen him since! I hadn’t seen Will in nearly ten years, not since I had served with him in the Royal Marine Commandos. We’d done a few tours of Northern Ireland and had been through some scrapes together. There are approximately fifty-thousand contractors in Iraq, so it is inevitable that you will bump into someone you’ve served with in the past somewhere along the line.

After catching a few z’s and an hour’s drive, we got to the office. The sun was just rising and I witnessed a beautiful sunrise. We were welcomed at the office by Tom, who apologised for the cock-up but insisted it was nothing to do with him. Rather it had been the Mosul end that was responsible for the breakdown of communications. All of us were starving, so in an instant we were out of the door and walking along the beach towards the restaurant. The weather in Kuwait was pretty warm, about 25ºC. It made a nice change from the wet and windy Iraq we’d just left. After a delicious breakfast and a good deal of looking at the lovely waitresses, we headed back to the office with a little regret – those chicks were hot, really great eye candy, but I figured that, as I’m an ugly bastard, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

Tom was looking a bit sombre when we arrived back. ‘Did any of you know John Barker from Baghdad?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I do. I worked with him for a few months. He’s a good mate, why?’

‘Got some terrible news, Pete,’ he said.

As soon as the words had left his mouth I knew that John was dead. Doing the job we did, if someone talked of ‘something terrible’, we just knew someone had been killed. John had been an ex-Royal Marine Commando, then he’d joined the Metropolitan Police and ended up in its elite SO19 firearms team. When he had left that job he came out to Baghdad and worked with us.

From what we could gather, John had been working on Checkpoint 1 at Baghdad International Airport (this was the main entrance to the airport). There had been a queue of cars waiting to get in. John was head of the security and the search team and had approached a car that had one male occupant in it. John had obviously sensed the guy was dodgy and he got down into a firing position and was asking the guy to get out of the car when the guy triggered his suicide bomb.

John didn’t stand a chance. He was blown apart, apparently killed instantly. John’s death was a shock to me and everyone who knew him. We all talked about it for a while, especially Phillipe, who had also worked with him. John was a lovely man, God bless him. Another secret death statistic in the volatile country of Iraq.

We were due out of Kuwait on the evening flight. This was due to get us into Amsterdam during the early morning. We left all our body armour and helmets in the office, did our last-minute emails to friends and family and were off to the airport. At the terminal we went through all the searches, which are the standard for all civilian travellers, but because of our Yank IDs we didn’t have to take our shoes off and, as was common practice, we got through customs pretty quickly. I must admit now, I was really looking forward to getting home, seeing my family and my mates, going out for some nice food, some beers – just doing normal stuff. I realised how alienated I’d made myself in Iraq, how I’d shut out the outside world. I’d made Iraq my be-all and end-all, and now it was time to get back to normal and reality, for a while at least.

We started to get on the plane. I’d chosen a window seat. Even today I enjoy looking out of the window when flying just as I did when I was a kid. Soon we had taken off. I was seated next to Phillipe. The seat-belt sign went off and the air stewardesses came round. One lady mentioned that she thought we were soldiers on our way back from Iraq. We just replied that we worked there, and from that moment on we got a lot of attention. I ended up with six free bottles of wine and Phillipe had more free Heineken than he could drink – but we both did our best, obviously. We both ended up sleeping more than anything else, though, and it wasn’t long before we were touching down in Amsterdam.

Once we were in the terminal, Phillipe and I said our goodbyes to the other two guys and went for a walk around Schiphol. I tried my best to get Phillipe to come back to my house in the West Country for a few days before he went back to France, but he had to get home. I had a quick browse around the airport, but was soon on a plane back to Heathrow. I’d called a mate of mine and asked if he could pick me up from the bus station back in the West Country, but he insisted on coming to Heathrow to get me, which was kind.

As the plane touched down at Heathrow, I was again looking out of the window and could see that it was pissing down! I got off the plane and went through customs as fast as possible. I was soon stood outside the terminal in the pouring rain. My mate Rodders was waiting for me. I hadn’t seen him for months. We gave each other a hug and then I jumped into his car. We chatted nonstop all the way home. It was hard trying to explain what I’d been doing, so I kept talk of Iraq to a minimum. Instead I just caught up with all the gossip from back home. It made me realise how life goes on and how much I had missed out on while I had been away – it made me feel more than a bit homesick.

Nothing seemed to have changed and Rod had been looking after my motorbike, a Ducati 916; I love that bike, but it’s got me into trouble sometimes.

Before going to Iraq I had decided it was going to be a hell of a long time before I rode my motorbike again, if ever, because there was a very real possibility I might never have returned. It could be my last chance for a burn. So one morning I jumped on my 916 and went for a blast. I’d met up with a few friends and we headed for Monmouth in Wales. Most of my mates were riding Suzuki GSXRs and Yamaha R1s, but I guess there’s no accounting for individual taste! There are some great twisty fast roads on the way and that day we were maybe breaking a speed limit or two.

I was just slowing down to come through a small village when I saw the dreaded blue lights behind. I pulled over, got off my bike and took off my helmet. ‘Good morning, sir. Do you know why I’ve pulled you over?’ the officer asked.

‘Well it’s probably not to compliment me on my riding,’ I replied. The copper gave a chuckle and asked me to get in the car. He showed me a reading of 92 m.p.h. in a 60 m.p.h. zone and promptly gave me a ticket. No bollocking, no nothing, just gave me the ticket and sent me on my way.